Happy Places
by Sunny33
Summary: Trapped and injured, there's nothing else Dean can do but go to his happy places. Set mid S4. DeanWhump and HeroSam. Language and scenes of a sexual nature. Well, it is Dean, remember. Now Complete!
1. Chapter 1

**Happy Places **

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*

_He remembers the morning he woke up and Dad was there. Must of been about eight or nine years old. _

_Remembers feeling Sam's hot little back pressed up against his own and knowing that all was right with the world, because Dad was home and was sitting in the chair just looking at him. _

_He must of snuck in during the early hours, because he wasn't there at 1am when he'd been awake and the rain on the window had been strong enough to stop him from drifting off. Or 3.30am when the storm had passed and he'd been wakened by something else. Even now he remembered how his heart would jump into frantic action at a sound loud enough to wake him. Hope and fear. That's what it brought. _

_Hope that it was Dad turning the key in the lock. Coming home. _

_Fear that it was an intruder. Supernatural or otherwise. _

_*_

The strain on his neck is overwhelming. And all he has to do is lift his head. Get his chin up off his chest. As simple as that.

Why when he fell asleep, did his head always fall forward like that? It really sucked, because by the time the pain woke him again, his neck muscles were too damned stretched and sore to lift his head up.

He makes a concentrated effort – the pain forcing a strangled whine from his throat that stabs the silence of the basement.

It doesn't matter.

No one to hear it anyway.

Anston Riley wouldn't hear it. Another dead hunter lying beside him. Dead eyes staring out towards the door neither of them can reach. A faithful, silent witness to Dean's suffering.

Anston had almost got him too. Swung that machete high and even connected with the side of the Vampires head. Had he not moved ever so slightly towards the left like he did, he would've been bloodless and dead. Much like Anston is now.

Ah. Such is life.

Or death.

*

_He remembers fumbling for his phone. _

_Remembers cursing into the darkness when his slick fingers had transformed the cell into a bar of soap and it had shot out of his grasp and onto the floor. _

_An hour to find it. At least. _

_He remembers the last few words of their argument. _

"_No, Sam, off you trot. Don't let me stop you." _

"_I said I'd come with you -," his eyes flashing with anger. _

"_- No, you said you'd drive with me, and then you have a ' meeting' to attend." Dean had executed the quote signs with particular gusto although there was nothing funny about it. _

"_I'll cancel the meet," _

"_No, just fuck off and leave me alone." Obscenities were always useful when there was no fight left in the argument. _

"_Fine." He'd snatched his jacket and done just that. _

"_Fine." Dean had muttered much too late. _

_He remembers the lull of the ring tone, and the effort it took to hold the phone up at his ear. _

"_This is Sam. Leave a message..." _

_*_

A cough. A cry.

A cough. Another cry.

That's how it goes.

And he doesn't appreciate the frothy blood in his mouth either. Doesn't have the breath to spit it that far away from him because turning his head hurts too.

A crossbow.

Who the hell has a crossbow these days?

Of all the weapons through out all the years, he can't think of one other time he'd ever come across someone with a crossbow.

Actually. Pretty impressive, now that he thinks about it.

It's bolt was strong enough to drive him onto his butt and pinned him to the wall he is now propped up against. A new fixture of the basement.

He shifts his leg underneath him, trying to ease the strain on the bolt. The feathers jutting out of his right shoulder goad him with their permanent presence.

So does Anston.

Two hunters colliding on their way to the same objective.

He was young and keen and what the hey. Two heads and all that.

He remembers thinking about warning him off, but he'd lost the energy after his fight with Sam.

And during the short 'get to know you' session they had shared, Dean would never have asked for the kids next of kin. Bad karma and all that.

And now his life had ended on a filthy basement floor in the middle of Vermont.

At least he had company.

*

_He remembers the shape of her lips and the pull of her arms as he pushed himself inside her. _

_Remembers the warmth of her breath on his skin and the shared anticipation of the climax. _

_Acceptance. _

_Raw and pure. _

_He gave and she accepted. _

_Everyone goes home happy. _

_Afterwards, everything always seems softer. _

_The bed. The sheets. Her skin. Her scent. _

_Comfort and contentment. _

*

Cold and cramps.

He jerks at the cramp in his leg and sees that his head is down again, his neck muscles screaming.

Pink frothy globs dot his jeans and the fact that he can see this means it's getting light.

Breathing's getting worse.

He lifts his head.

Lifts the phone.

Hears the ringing.

"Yeah." Sleepy.

"Uh...think you could...come get me?" He listens for the reaction.

"Sure." There's no trace of smugness. "Where are you?"

He rests his head back onto the wall and remembers he isn't where he's supposed to be. Remembers getting dragged into a truck with Anston. The journey was short and violent.

"Still in Vermont...I think. Can't be far from...from the original nest."

"What happened?" He's awake and worried now.

He considers launching into the whole story, but his arm is too sore and his chest aches and his breath seems too precious to waste.

"Later, dude. I'm stuck here though. I'm not getting out without..."

And then he sees it. The shadow under the door.

"Without what?"

There's no more time.

He's coming back.

They're all coming back.

*

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	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

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He stands in the doorway – the halo of light behind him lifting his figure to an almost God-like status. He smiles at his trophy.

His eyes flick towards the skinny kid lying on the ground, and he lifts a hand towards what's left of his right ear and flinches at the touch.

"You better hope your eyesight never fails, you're fucked for glasses," Dean snarks, looking up at him.

A sudden fury mutating his sublime features, he makes a run for Dean and lifts a heavy boot towards his chest. Dean receives the assault and the accompanying breathlessness that follows without ceremony – for there is no escape from this onslaught. The only upside is that the force of the kick to his chest has dislodged the bolt from the back wall, and he lies on his side, gasping through bloodied teeth for air.

And the kicks continue - two, three, four more. Each time Dean moves a little further back, the tip of the bolt eventually touching the other wall.

And then he suddenly stops.

He stands still for a beat, like a child looking down at a broken toy.

He drops to one knee.

Pulls Dean close, and closer.

So close, Dean can hear him breath. Little tentative breaths, sniffing the aroma of blood on Dean's skin. He nuzzles against Dean's chest, where the bolt penetrates. The assault has caused it to bleed again. He closes his eyes and licks around the bolt, his tongue thick with blood. His breathing increases along with the thrill of having his prey - so close, and so...alive.

"Francis!" the voice makes him gasp. He lifts his face to look back at the doorway.

"Get him in the truck. We're going."

*

_He remembers feeling invincible. _

_Remembers the sideways glances, and the grudging nods of agreement. _

_They'd just screwed over a hard nosed bunch of bikers and were riding high on the feeling that eight hundred dollars gives you. _

_The four bikers had clicked to the fact they'd been rolled as soon as they'd noticed Sam drop his 'dumb and dumber' attitude. The one that had lured them into the game in the first place. _

_But they weren't that stupid that they didn't see the potential harm these brothers could do to them. They understood power when they saw it. _

_He remembers the width of Sam's smile and his high pitched laughter as they'd screeched away from the parking lot. _

_And they were Hell's Angels. _

_Oh, the irony. _

_*_

Dragging.

Being dragged.

He was being dragged and suddenly became aware of his limbs moving bonelessly over the rough ground. He could hear Francis grunting with the effort.

Back in the truck – face down. Grit digging into his face as the young Vampire pushed his head down even harder and he fought to keep the bolt from touching the metal floor and being rammed further into his shoulder.

He thinks about what will be left by the time Sam gets here.

His gun.

His knife.

And Anston Riley lying in a heap in the basement.

*

_He remembers the smell. _

_That sweet, baby powder odour assailing his nose and mouth. _

_Little hands grasping at his own. _

_Little fingers. _

_Big eyes searching his face. A gooey smile. _

_He remembers scrunching up his nose at the dead diaper lying on the carpet, and then only just managing to grab it from Sam's clutches as he'd crawled towards it. _

"_Hey," the voice firm and gritty from too little sleep. "You changed his diaper?" _

_He remembers that stab of uncertainty as he nodded. _

_Remembers the smile he got in return. _

_And the calloused hand smoothing his hair. _

"_Sam's a lucky boy, having a brother like you," he'd said quietly. "Go get your breakfast, son." _

*

Falling.

And if he lands on his back or his front – he's screwed.

It doesn't matter.

There's no one to hear him.

He allows himself a low whine as his ribs bear the brunt of the fall onto another hardwood floor. Worse than that, Francis is following him in.

He bends down to crouch in front of Dean. His eyes caressing Dean's wounds like a dog looking at a steak. He licks his lips and allows his fangs to descend.

Dean stills and closes his eyes.

"Now, man...let's do it now!," he demands, throwing a glance back at the looming figure by the trap door.

"Get your ass back up here, Francis."

Dean feels grateful for his obvious dominance over the younger Vampire.

"We're keeping him for the others."

*

_He remembers the log fire sparking and spitting, and throwing out it's welcoming heat. _

_Remembers the table groaning with food. _

_Sam too polite to make the first move. _

"_Dig in, boys," she'd said cheerfully, plunging a huge spoon into a bowl of hot mashed potatoes. _

_And the food had just slipped over nicely. _

_A home cooked meal. _

_Their stomachs filling with satisfaction. _

_He remembers her fussing over Dean's wet clothes, and the comforting damp smell of them drying in front of the fire. _

_She'd stood for a beat, hands on ample hips, watching them eat. A proud mother with no children left, and two waifs to feed. Two little boys with no mother and no money left to buy food. _

_There truly was justice in the world. _

*

The trap door slams shut lifting the dust up from the floor and forcing it's way into Dean's open mouth and throat.

It makes him cough and the frothy liquid fills his mouth again, sucking up the dust at least.

Sleep.

He doesn't want too. But somehow, he has too...

When he opens his eyes again, he fumbles for his phone. Prays that it's not broken.

It lights up like a candle on a cold winters night.

He holds it against his ear and presses it hard to stop the incessant tremble. He moves to rest his arm, but the action jolts him into a short spasm of exquisite pain.

One ring and it's answered.

"What the fuck, Dean!" Oh, he's pissed now. Or relieved.

"I know...they came for me..."

"Yeah, well now I'm coming for them, " he sounds determined.

"They've...they've moved me again."

"No shit. I'm already here."

"Don't come alone, Sam."

"What?"

"It's party time...there's gonna be hoards of 'em."

A silence.

"Whose the kid?"

Was he not listening?

"Oh. That's Anston. Or was."

Another pause. Like he's reassessing the situation.

"Dean...just do what you can." His determination not so bright now. "Keep your phone on. I'm not far behind you."

Dean closes his eyes.

The trap door opens and Dean snaps his phone shut and hides it in an instant.

Francis in his face.

He pulls up his arms to shield himself, but it's a pathetic defence in the face of such violence.

"Time for dinner," he grinds as he hauls Dean up by the scruff of his neck, his wiry body supporting his prey because he can't stand up straight anymore.

"No... " Dean mumbles, his breath hitching at the pain in his chest the sudden movement brings.

Francis forces him against the wooden steps, the darkness of the night not promising any kind of welcome.

"They're all here." Francis grins. "All waiting for ya'.

A vicious grab at Dean's hair and he pushes him up towards the trap door and outside. ..

*

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	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

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The music throbs.

It's beat a mantra for the writhing, gyrating mass of bodies dancing in the heat of the night. Alcohol tainted breaths in his face. Leering, jeering at him as he gets hauled through the dilapidated house. It oozes with psyched up teenagers. Teen spirit at it's worst.

Francis's high pitched voice, announcing his trophy. "See. Caught me a hunter!" Screaming into Dean's face. "We gonna fuck you up good, man."

He doesn't doubt it.

His legs stumbling. His jacket ripped off. The stabbing pain digging into him. His breathing thick with strain. Smiling, happy people rejoicing in his presence. His predicament.

Too many. Far too many to beat.

"How long before Toby gets here? How long?"

"I dunno, maybe an hour."

Stuffed inside a broom cupboard. Airless.

Another door closing. Darkness.

*

_He remembers looking at the pale, drawn face of another person in the bathroom mirror. _

_Remembers timing his entrance. _

_Sam scowling at the phone. The way he watched as Dean had dropped himself down onto the bed, exhausted already. _

_It sucked that he had to leave. They'd only just gotten back together. Like brothers. And Dad not phoning back had pushed the unpalatable theory that he was dead, or trapped somewhere. _

"_Don't worry, Sam. I'll probably see him downstairs anyway," he'd snarked._

_Sam sitting on the other bed, watching him as he slept. Little naps, like an old man would take. _

_Acceptance and happiness. _

_Acceptance that he was going to die. _

_Happiness that they had this time together. _

"_This isn't fair man," he'd said quietly, unaware that Dean was awake. "Just got used to having my brother_ _back. Don't wanna lose this. Again. "_

_*_

When the door opens, he braces himself.

His ribs ache, his chest is on fire and his breathing keeps him from falling asleep. The frenetic beat of the music muffles their excited voices.

"Cool! Where'd you get him?"

"Hmm, he bleeds real purdy."

"You think he's a hunter?"

"Bastards killed my Uncle!"

"Toby's gonna love this."

When the door opens again, his heart jumps into action. The light stings his eyes.

"Francis wants to hand him over now, says he won't last long."

"I want him."

"Are you kidding? He's for Toby –"

"- Fuck Toby, he's mine. Help me shift him."

Hands pulling. Dragging him through the throng.

Heart jack-hammering inside his chest.

Not long now.

Suddenly outside. The throb of the music slowly fading. The frantic movements they make to get him away makes him wimper. They wait for him to get off his knees. Supporting hands both sides.

"What are you gonna do with him?"

"Save him."

"Why? He's a hunter."

"He saved us once."

*

Dean watches Lenore snap his phone shut and she bites her lip.

He knows she stays away because the blood dripping from his face and shoulder is so fresh.

He sees her lifting her nose to smell it.

"Sam'll be here soon," she says. But her eyes don't reflect the confidence in her voice. Each breath is a challenge now. The bloodied froth merely drips out of the side of his mouth. The nausea reaches peaks he doesn't want to experience, since the energy it would take to throw up would surely end him.

A sudden distraction.

She stretches the blinds to peak outside.

The low rumble of the Impala gets louder.

Whispered voices.

Then Sam's anxious face looms above him. His eyes widening at the bolt rudely protruding from his brother's shoulder. The noise of his breathing thunders inside his head.

"I'm sorry, but he can't stay here," Lenore warns from the background.

"I know. Where's the nearest hospital?"

"Twenty miles south. You think he's going to make it that far?"

Sam doesn't even answer. He smoothes the beads of sweat from Dean's brow. The contact soothes him.

"Dean?" Green eyes staring out of a pale and bloodied face. "I can't fix this...it's too bad," he says, his eyes flicking down towards the bolt.

He cups his hand behind Dean's head.

"This is gonna hurt, man." Strong arms lifting him up. Sam grimaces at the pain filled groan Dean makes.

The cool leather of the car on his face.

Sam gently pulling him across the seats.

"You should probably sit up," he looks closely into Dean's eyes.

"No..." he croaks.

"Come on, Dean just this once," he pleads. "The bolt's probably gone through your lung, that's why you can't breathe."

Dean allows himself to be propped up against the door, a bundled up sweater at his back where the bolt sticks out. He reaches out and grabs at Sam's jacket. Eye contact.

"Hey, listen...everything's gonna be fine, I swear."

The car jerks forward over rough ground.

*

A general bustle.

Quiet voices.

Controlled activity.

Alarms buzzing. Bells ringing.

Needle stabs in his hands and arms. Bags of saline dangle above him.

"Sats at only 76%, query aspiration."

"Set up a chest drain, would you Clare..."

"...X ray shows a chipped scapula...lucky."

"Ready to intubate."

"ETA for surgery?"

"OK, Mr Williams? Mr Williams. Just going to put this mask over your face and give you some high speed oxygen before we get you ready for surgery....Mr Williams? Mr Williams?"

*

A happy place.

That's where he is.

Peace and tranquillity.

Here there is no pain.

And he can breathe. His mouth was dry but hell, that wasn't much to whine about, considering.

Here, there is no worry.

No fear.

He knows that all is right in the world when he moves his head slightly and sees Sam sitting in the chair, not far away, just looking at him.

Must've snuck in during the night, 'cos it can't be visiting time this early in the morning.

He takes a deep breath and regrets it immediately. A sudden ache in his chest. Sam edges closer.

"Hey, everything's fine," he whispers. "Go back to sleep. I'll wait."

*

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**The End**


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